The Adventure of the Demon Barber
by TheWildHeffernan
Summary: This may be the most peculiar case Sherlock Holmes has yet encountered- made more so by the fact that the suspect has been following the. And the suspect is dead on the bakehouse floor...


It all began on a dark November day, year of our lord, 1869. There were broiling storm clouds on the horizon, looking down as the last of this year's ships hurried in to port, struggling to unload before the thunder reached the city. I, on this particular occasion, wasn't comfortably holed up in our quarters on Baker Street, as was proper, but roaming the docks with my good friend and flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. What he was looking for, I had forgotten. Or, more likely, never known in the first place. At the time we start our tale, I had forgotten all but my freezing misery, or else I feel sure I would have picked up on the fact that we were in for quite the spot of trouble.

However, I didn't notice a thing. It took me quite a bit, even, to realize that Holmes's silence was not out of courtesy to passerby, but merely because he was studying two men standing to our left that had just disembarked.

"Tell me what you think of those two, Watson?" I looked over at the men he was referring to. One was a slight, very young man, clean-shaven and dressed like a sailor. The other man, not much taller, but sturdy, if malnourished, seemed to be speaking with great intensity- although, he wasn't looking at anyone in particular.

"They make a strange pair, to be sure, Holmes," I replied. "I would say the young one is a sailor on the ship they've just left, and the other a passenger."

"Truly, your skills of deduction are blossoming, Watson," Holmes said sarcastically. "Anything else?"

"Well… the sailor looks… concerned."

Holmes rolled his eyes, giving a long-suffering look to the sky, and looked back down, spotting something on the ground.

"Ah! Excellent!" He leant down and plucked what appeared to be a cigar stub from a puddle in the road.

"Let's go, Watson. You look half dead." I nodded numbly and followed as he started back to Baker Street. He was quiet the whole way home.

In fact, he didn't speak a word until, after a much-needed bath, I entered the parlor to find him smoking his pipe, and gazing vacantly at the wall.

"Had fun with your litter?" He nodded towards a notebook open on the coffee table, with a fresh page of writing drying.

"Needed it for my thesis on tobacco ash. However, my mind is at present occupied with matters far more obvious to the public."

"How do you mean, Holmes?"

"Do you recall the man from the wharf?"

"I fear you'll have to be more specific than that."

"He was talking at the sailor." I threw my mind back, and remembered the man he was referring to.

"Still thinking on him?" Holmes removed the pipe from his mouth, and fixed me with a rather uncomfortable stare.

"That man, Watson, is an escaped convict."

"What?" I replied in shock. "How can you be certain?"

"It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he hasn't set foot in London for nearly 15 years. He's been imprisoned outside of the country-somewhere warm and dry, Australia, probably. His hair- didn't you see? He's been beaten down most horribly, under a great deal of stress to turn the hair white."

Holmes, even you have some gray in your hair."

"No, Watson. That was quite distinctive. Only in one spot. And, he hasn't taken care to keep up his appearance, or shield his emotions. Not for a great many year. He looks ill, prematurely aged, malnourished, and angry."

"Holmes, he could still be from London."

"Didn't you attend me, Watson? He is from London, quite probably born here, by his accent. He's not been back for-"

"Fifteen years. I know. But how-"

"He nearly walked into the arch down by the wharf. He was looking around warily, careful not to lose his way. But he did not look at the street signs. He knows the layout, if not the ornamentation. That arch was built fourteen years ago."

I thought this over for a moment.

'By God, Holmes! We must get the police in on this immediately!"

Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Watson, dear Watson, you must know he's never harmed a soul."

"I beg your pardon, but all you've just said points exactly opposite. Sent to bloody Australia? For what- stealing an apple? Spooking a horse? He's a hardened criminal, surely."

"Watson, you far underestimate the credulity of our judicial system. The man in question is somewhere from thirty-seven to forty-nine years of age-"

"You're making this up."

"-and so, would have been a young man when imprisoned. A figure of great power-an aristocrat or a judge, or something of that nature, needed him out of the way. He could have been set to inherit a title or sum of money- although that seems unlikely, or, more likely, wanted a woman."

"You can't be imprisoned for having a pretty wife."

"As I said before, you far, far underestimate to corruption in our government. In mankind. In the souls of every living thing, there lives a horrible, twisted creature ready to snatch what it desires, whatever the consequences. In each of us…"

I saw he had been taken by one of his poetic moods, and so I rose to leave.

"-there is convict. A brutally starved and beaten person that loses the ability to feel his reality, whose nature narrows to encompass only what he's lost, and thinks is right. What must be right, because, if not, he is wrong, and one more wrong will end him forever. Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"You aren't still going for the police, are you?"

I shook my head.

"No, old chap. I'm ever so comfortable right now, anyway, that I think I'll just stay in. If you're sure he couldn't harm anyone."

The storm crashed, the rain came, and I assumed it was a passing thought. I should have known that an affair that began in darkness should continue so until it popped up again for Holmes to crack and I to marvel at, in horror and sympathy, until the end showed. However, dear reader, the end didn't come that stormy night, nor the cool, quiet one that came later, not for so, so many nights. And so, continue on. Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street.

**Author's Note: A few things, here. If you're reading this, then I'll bet you know that Sherlock Holmes doesn't take place until the 1890's, and that Sweeney Todd takes place in 1846. Since I needed Holmes and Watson to be alive and solving crimes at the time of the story, but didn't want to kill the authenticity, I tried to meet in the middle.**

**Also, I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can-once people review. I need three different people to confirm they want more, just cause I don't want to write to an empty room. Love you all!**

**~TheWildHeffernandven**


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